All Is Memory
by bcbdrums
Summary: The way we perceive Sherlock Holmes depends on who is telling the story... NOTE: This fic is on hiatus indefinitely.
1. Another Place

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Is Memory

© 2008 by the author (anonymous by request) in association with Daylor and Sheldon Publishing™

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

The author does not in any way profit from this work. All creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator.

For more information: submit a review or contact the author via private message.

* * *

All Is Memory

Day 1 - Another Place

Susan's jaw dropped as she tilted her head further and further back, looking up at the two-storey building. It was nothing compared to some of the places they had already been, but being built on such a high cliff made it appear larger.

"Susan, close your mouth this instant! Honestly, your manners child…" Susan immediately obeyed her mother's admonition. She took a tighter hold of her small valise as the trap climbed the long path to the house.

It was a house, but had been converted to an inn by the owner. That's what Susan heard their driver telling her parents as they rattled up the hill. If it was a house, it was like none she had ever seen. Her own London home was made of crumbling red brick. This one was opposite that in many ways, except for its obvious age.

She continued gazing at it as they approached, taking in every feature. The whitewashed wooden siding, the dark shingled roof, the large windows, and the elegant gardens all gave the establishment an aura of grandeur.

But she also noticed the places where the paint was wearing thin, the missing shingles, the small windows on the beach-side of the building, and the way the gardens merged with the sand if you were to view the house from any angle but the front.

"My, but it is old! Do you think it is safe?" Susan's mother asked her father. Apparently she was not the only observant one.

"There is not a sturdier house in all of France my dear. Ho, driver!" he exclaimed as they drove over a large divot.

"Worry not, monsieur. These wheels have withstood this path for many a year."

"But you've woken the baby! Here now, let me hold him," he said, reaching for the small bundle his wife was cradling tightly. Susan leaned forward as the baby changed hands.

The child was scarcely two weeks old, and she had barely seen its face since it was born. Now that she had a sibling closer to her age, she wanted to at least know what it looked like.

But the face remained covered as her father took it and began rocking it gently. It surely must have a mouth and lungs at least, for all the noise it was making.

Susan was so busy staring at the noisy infant, that when the trap stopped she pitched forward.

"Mind yourself child, you almost fell onto the baby," her father said, leaning away from her as she clumsily righted herself in her seat. "Now, collect your valise and let's see to our rooms."

Susan did as she was told, and followed the driver and her parents toward the building. She halted before entering though, and looked down at the beach. Somehow, the hotel now seemed much smaller compared to the vast Mediterranean coast beneath the cliff.

"Susan!" she turned and scurried after her mother's vanishing skirts.

The indoors matched the outdoors in aesthetics. She could see lovely, plush furnishings through the parlor door, but the upholstery was clearly worn in many places. The finish was wearing from the hardwood floor in the foyer, as was the varnish on the manager's desk that they were now approaching.

Susan shivered slightly and rubbed her arms beneath her sleeves. There was not nearly enough light in the hotel. The large windows in the front of the building had large, dusty draperies covering them, and there were none of the smaller windows in the lobby that she had seen from outside.

She walked toward the stairwell in the hall ahead, where she could see a square of light on the dark wood floor from a window. Reaching the place, she stood in the light and closed her eyes as she looked up, directly at the sun.

The warm light bathed her face and her arms grew hot beneath her heavy sleeves. She wondered if her mother would want to go shopping. The clothes they had brought may not suit a French winter.

Just then, she heard a sound from above her. Her eyes traveled up the stairs and met those of a boy. He was grinning at her, but somehow the grin made her uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, she stared back. There had been no one to play with in any of the places they had been recently, and the thought of a friend was so welcome to her that she would even take this boy.

Although he could hardly be called a boy, now that she truly looked at him. He was at least two heads taller than she was, and except for the impish grin he looked almost like a grown-up.

She decided he was a boy, however, when he made a face at her and ran away.

Susan crossed her arms and frowned. No, she still had no playmate.

"Stop dawdling Susan, we haven't got all day," came her mother's voice from behind her, raised over the voice of the still squalling baby. And she jumped slightly as her parents and their driver suddenly appeared and ascended the stairs, followed by two men carrying one of their trunks.

She secured a tighter hold on her valise and followed them up, being careful not to bump the man carrying the back end of the trunk. She had made that mistake in Montpellier, and was promised severe punishment should the resulting incident be repeated.

At the top of the stairs, the hall grew dark again, and narrow. The walls were covered in a slightly worn floral paper, and every door was plain and white, except for the numbers painted in black.

Her parents stopped in front of the one numbered 116 and their driver produced a key which he presented to her father.

With a tip of his cap and a bonjour he was gone, and Susan thought it unlikely she would see him again.

She looked at the elegantly painted numbers. Were there really that many rooms in the hotel? She thought it unlikely, but she had only seen the front and a glimpse of the cliff-side. At least it appeared that the room they would be occupying was one of the last in the building, because the hall she was in dead-ended with the water closet.

She decided she would explore the hotel when she had the chance. For now she would have to explore their suite.

The men carrying the trunk took it into the master bedroom, and left to collect the other one from the trap. Susan slowly turned around and took in all of the sitting room.

It had one chair, one sofa, and two end tables with large lamps in the center. In the back there was a small writing desk and chair, and next to the door she had entered through was the sideboard. There were three paintings and a large mirror on the four walls.

From behind the white door of the master bedroom, she could hear the baby still crying out. Her mother had to raise her voice to be heard over the sound, and her tone was quite cross. Her father's was equally so as he responded. Susan covered her ears from the noise and looked at her surroundings again.

The mirror seemed to make the room larger, but Susan wasn't fooled. It was just another hotel room. The location was different, the outward appearance was different. But at the core, she knew it was exactly like the grand hotels they had visited in Germany and the quaint chalets she had seen in Switzerland.

Places did not change people.

Susan looked at the other door in the room, next to the door to her parents' room. It was plain and white like the rest.

She opened it and went inside.

Coughing at the dust, she looked at the small bed, the small nightstand, the small lamp, and the small dresser with its pitcher of water and lace doily. Only the woodwork wasn't white. Everything else was. Even the flowers on the wall-paper were white roses. Her fawn dress stood out in stark contrast.

She put down her valise and crawled upon the bed, sitting cross-legged and staring at the white door. The thin wall on her right didn't block the sounds of her parents' voices or the crying baby.

Susan let a tear escape her eye as she stared at the door, not really seeing it.

Her parents quieted after a minute or so, and soon after the baby did as well. It was hard enough getting it to sleep without them arguing about nonsensical things.

She heard the door of the room to the right open, and she followed the sound of her father's footfalls across the small sitting room and out into the hall. As the sound faded, another suddenly reached her ears.

Through the wall to her left, the one along the hall, there was music. Voices…distant, but profound. And not in English either.

She heard instruments as well; surely that was a harpsichord under the voices.

She left her tiny room with the intent to investigate, but again heard her mother's voice behind her.

"Susan, you're still in your traveling suit? Goodness child, you need to rest before we dine. Now off to bed with you. Go on," she ushered her back into the constricting white room, and Susan climbed back onto the bed.

She fell back with a sigh and let her head rest on the soft feather pillow, and fell asleep to the sounds of the mysterious voices and the tinkling harpsichord.

* * *

_Authors notes: First of all, let me say that it is against my better judgment to post by chapter, but oh well. And second, let me assure you, I would not have posted this in the Sherlock Holmes category if it were not relevant. So be patient, and all will be made clear._


	2. Unexpected Solace

Day 2 – Unexpected Solace

Susan awoke the next morning to the sound of the foreign music, and with a strange taste in her mouth.

Dinner in the small suite had been uneventful, as she picked at the French food that she had yet to find appealing, and the baby had cried and refused to be fed.

Yet all the time the music had not stopped, and now here it continued, the voices wailing in the darkness of her room. The spectral closeness of it suddenly frightened her, and she fumbled for matches to light the lamp.

Finding none immediately, she fled the room, only to find the sitting room just as dark.

Her fear mounted as the voices permeated the darkness, like ghosts searching for someone to listen to their cries.

She ran for the door to the hall and bumped into one of the trunks still standing by the door. Pausing only for a moment to rub her foot, she raced out into the hall and toward the stairwell where she knew the light was waiting.

Her breathing slowed as the darkness eased to gray and she reached the stairwell with its small, high window. She had to look up, as the window was far higher than she was tall, and all she could see were the gray clouds above the sea.

But it was still light.

Suddenly the music, momentarily forgotten in her relief, became louder, and she glanced back down the hall where the sound was coming from. Silhouetted against the dim gray light was the figure of a man leaning out of one of the doors. He appeared to be looking at her.

She didn't get the chance to think anything of it, because at that moment her father, clad in his nightshirt, rushed out of the suite, glancing both ways down the hall and ignoring the other man.

"Susan!" he called when he espied her, "What on earth are you doing? Come back to bed this instant." He was at her side almost instantly and pushing her back toward the dark door, not even allowing her the chance to explain.

"I'm sorry if she disturbed you," he finally acknowledged the stranger from whose room the strange music came, though he barely glanced at him. All Susan could see while being ushered into their suite was the man's slippers and the hem of a dressing gown.

Susan's father sat her in the large armchair and then he collapsed tiredly onto the sofa, rubbing his tired eyes. She looked at him curiously a moment, until he began to scold her for hallway excursion.

She leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands. She had had enough scoldings on this excessively long holiday to last her a lifetime.

Her mind wandered to the music, which had become quieter now. The man must have gone back inside his room.

And there had been that same gray light in his room that was in the hall. He must have a window. And a view of the beach and the sea.

"Susan? Are you listening to me? Well, if you don't care about the way you make us look to other people, you can go back to bed until you're ready to pay attention.

Susan slipped off the chair and trudged sullenly back to her room and the darkness.

Climbing into the still warm bed, she stared up at the darkness as the music filtered through the walls. For some reason, it didn't sound so mysterious anymore.

* * *

"Do you speak English?" her mother asked the well dressed woman who was seated on the settee of the downstairs parlor.

Her mother had insisted that they mingle with the other guests, so they had gone, baby and all, down to take afternoon tea with the bevy of people who accumulated at that hour.

So now she was seated in one of the plush but worn chairs, perfectly straight and still, holding her tea-cup in one hand and her plate with its small, solitary biscuit in the other.

She sipped at the hot tea carefully, pinching her lips at the heat of the bitter liquid.

Susan did not like tea.

She carefully replaced the cup on the plate, not wanting to spill any of the beverage on her white voile day-dress, and then began to nibble at the tiny biscuit. She wanted to make it last as long as possible, because her mother had said only the one.

She turned her gaze to the woman her mother had addressed. A gray haired, buxom woman, dressed in a full skirt, spencer jacket, and a massive bustle. Susan wondered how she walked, let alone sat in that costume.

And apparently she did not speak English, for she immediately answered her mother in French, talking endlessly about who knows what, but looking directly at her. Perhaps she thought her mother spoke French?

"You see Susan? This is why I want you to study the languages," her mother said, somewhat flustered. She then turned back to the woman and tried to make her understand that she didn't speak French.

Uninterested in learning French, Susan looked at the other occupants of the room. There was her father cradling the baby in the chair next to her, and two young women with heavy French accents were accosting him for permission to hold the child. There was also an extremely elderly man on a chaise. Susan wondered how he could sleep with the hubbub in the room.

He was awfully still. Maybe he was dead?

She decided to investigate, so she walked toward the man, quickly finishing the biscuit and washing it down with a sip of the cooling tea.

She carefully balanced her tea-cup in both hands as she gazed at him. His many wrinkles and thin white hair spoke of death, so much so that she was almost afraid to be near to him. She thought she could see his chest rising, but it was so slight she wasn't certain.

She was mustering the courage to poke him, just to be sure, when suddenly the boy she had seen the other day jumped up from under the chaise with a loud cry of "boo!"

Susan squealed in surprise and stumbled backwards, spilling the tea all over her dress and falling hard on the parlor rug. The liquid had already soaked through the thin layers of her skirts, and was now dampening her stockings.

The old man sat up with a start at the activity around him, effectively proving to Susan that he was alive despite his appearance.

The boy started laughing incessantly, but he stopped abruptly when the flamboyantly dressed French matron cried out in a shrill, patronizing voice.

"Adrien! Vous venez ici!" The boy grew pale and walked toward the woman as Susan slowly righted herself, placing the now empty tea-cup on its saucer. She watched with interest as the woman berated the boy in French. She decided he must be her grandson.

After some telling gestures from his grandmother, the boy walked sullenly over to the old man and said something to him in French. The man, clearly angered from having his rest disturbed, stomped out of the room with a vigor he should not have at his age, muttering all the while.

The boy seemed unaffected and turned to Susan just as she stood up, trying to hold her wet stained skirts away from her.

"Je suis désolé. I am sorry," he said to her. She might have believed him were it not for the poorly suppressed snicker and mischievous gleam in his eyes as he glanced down at her soiled skirts. She made a face at him and he simply walked back to his grandmother, putting on a fake look of repentance.

But his grandmother said something else to him which brought a look of shock and true discontent to his face. The woman then turned to Susan's mother and said something, to which Susan's mother shook her head.

"I'm sorry, I—" but she was cut off by the French boy.

"My grandmother says she is sorry for my rude behavior to your daughter and if it happens again she will box my ears," he mumbled, eyes downcast.

"Oh," Susan's mother raised her eyebrows in surprise, "Well, tell your grandmother that isn't necessary. My daughter should not have been behaving in such an unladylike fashion. Honestly Susan," she turned to her, "staring at a gentleman while he sleeps? Just what were you thinking?"

Susan was too shocked to answer, and was saved from having to do so as the boy began translating to his grandmother, and she replied back.

"My grandmother says yes, children are not as behaved as they were in her day," the boy spoke for her again.

Susan's mother smiled and sat down next to the woman on the settee.

"They really aren't. I must tell you about the time…"

Susan tuned out her mother's voice as she set the tea-cup and plate back upon the tea service. She started toward the lobby when her father caught her by the arm.

"Really dear, you must learn to behave," he said with a calm but direct gaze, "Now run along and change. Leave your dress in the laundry for the maids."

When he released her, Susan ran from the parlor through the lobby and up the stairs.

She had intended to go to her room and cry for awhile, but a change in the hallway scenery caught her attention.

Outside the door the man had emerged from that morning, was a cart with a dinner tray. It appeared to be untouched, except possibly for the tea. Most of the food was covered, but there was one dish that was not.

Susan forgot about her soiled dress as she moved forward and stared at the plate that held the two large chocolatines.

That biscuit had been so tiny. And it appeared as though the man would not be taking his supper. It would be a shame to waste such finely prepared pastries.

"Susan!" she jumped at the sound of her mother's voice, "Come away from there this instant and attend to your washing. Look, even your stockings were soiled. Go on now, get to it!"

Susan hurried into the suite and to her room, where she hastily began changing. The foreign music was still playing, she noticed, and it seemed to be slightly louder than before.

From her parents' room, she heard the baby begin to cry, and her mother's soft voice trying to calm it.

Susan heard her father enter the suite, and her mother went to the sitting room to greet him.

"Will you please speak to the gentleman?" Susan heard her mother address her father, "The baby cannot sleep with all that opera playing."

"I doubt the fellow would be sympathetic."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember those young French ladies in the parlor? They told me all about him."

"Oh?" Susan could hear her mother's suspicion in that one word after her father had mentioned the young women, but he either ignored it or did not notice.

"They used to have a suite on this level, but moved downstairs because the fellow in 119 never turns off that gramophone."

Susan did not know what a gramophone was. But the idea of something that could make all that music fascinated her. And what was opera?

She finished tying the sash on the dress she had changed into, and opened her door a crack to listen.

"Never?" her mother spluttered, "But we can hardly sleep let alone the baby. You must ask him to turn it off at least for a few hours of the day so the baby can nap. And certainly at night so we can all sleep."

"It would do no good Pearl. Apparently the man has been here for over two months already, and has done nothing but listen to Verdi's operas since the day he moved in."

"Well that is certainly queer!" her mother said, still upset.

"And the ladies said he never leaves that room either, and when bothered he only increases the volume of the music."

"Well! Of all the inconsiderate, ill-mannered things to do! Really Manfred, I do not understand the French culture sometimes."

"Oh, but this fellow is English."

"No, he couldn't possibly?"

"That is what the ladies told me," Susan saw her mother bristle slightly at the mention of the ladies, "And I've seen the man myself. This morning when Susan ran out of the room she disturbed him enough to give him cause to open the door. He is most decidedly English in his appearance."

"What? Susan ran…?" At that moment her mother glanced toward her room and saw Susan peeking out. Susan tightened her grip on the doorknob, knowing what was to come next.

"Susan!" she was surprised only in that it was her father's voice and not her mother's, "Come here."

That she had not expected, but she obeyed, her bare feet making no sound on the dark hardwood floor as she approached her judgment.

Her mother opened her mouth to speak as she approached, but her father silenced her with a glance.

"Susan, it is impolite to listen to other people's private conversations." Susan thought of telling her father that she could hear through the walls, but realized it would only be seen as defiance. So she nodded her head in agreement and was immediately sent back to her room, her parents having no need of her after administering the reprimand.

"Oh, and Susan?" she turned from her door to meet her mother's eyes, "Do try to learn some of the French language. I would like to think your education was not too terribly set back by our little holiday."

Susan did not answer, but entered her room and continued her dressing, trying to focus on the music instead of her parents' voices.

The music, which had terrified her only hours before, had become a strange sort of comfort in this place.

Exactly where did the music come from? What was this gramophone?

And what was opera? The way her mother spoke of it, it seemed as though she meant the music itself.

There was only one logical course of action. She would have to find the answers to all of her questions, she decided, as she fastened the last buttons of her boots.

* * *

_Author's notes: I'm leaving ample clues, but if you're still confused I don't blame you. But I will leave nothing unexplained, so fear not; the solution will soon present itself._


	3. Questions and Answers

Day 3 – Questions and Answers

Susan did not know what was more distracting, the baby crying in the room on the right, or the strange music called opera from the room on the left.

Three days at L'Auberge de Maguelone and all she had done was listen to the baby cry, her parents argue, and this strange artificially produced music.

At present she was attempting her Latin studies per her mother's instructions, but the baby could not sleep because of the music and now both were keeping her from concentrating.

She walked around the small room looking for distraction, and stopped in front of the dresser. Perhaps a drink of water would clear her head.

She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the pitcher of water and carefully took it down with both hands. She set it upon the dark wood floor and reached back up for the water glass.

After pouring the drink, she stood back up and looked in the mirror above the dresser, visible now that the pitcher wasn't obstructing her view. Her hair ribbon wasn't straight. She put the water glass down next to the pitcher so she could fix it.

Looking in the mirror while she adjusted the ribbon, she studied her appearance. People told her she looked like her mother, with her long walnut-colored hair and bright hazel eyes. But she could see that she had inherited her father's strong jaw and prominent cheekbones.

She thought she made a pretty picture, but for the perpetual frown on her face.

In the sitting room, her parents had begun arguing again. Susan opened the door a bit to listen.

"I've just had a letter from him," her father was saying to her mother, holding out the paper in question.

"I'm not interested," her mother replied, hesitating a moment before walking over and snatching the letter from his hands. She proceeded to read it and then with a look of frustration stormed into her bedroom.

The following silence was so thick, that it surprised Susan to hear the music cutting through the air again.

She stood there absently, listening to the various voices and instruments climb and fall, trying not to think of her parents fighting

Suddenly, she snapped to attention. She heard a familiar word in the voices that she had just seen in her Latin studies. Was the strange language Latin?

She closed the door and rushed to her book, eyes flying over the pages as she listened for any other familiar word.

A few small ones jumped out at her, but none of the long ones. And then there were a few that sounded similar to the words in the book, but she could tell they were not the same language.

This was confusing. The music seemed to be in Latin, and then, it wasn't.

Forgetting all about the argument of moments before, Susan picked up her book and went to the sitting room where her father was still seated, intending to ask him about it.

He was leaning back in the chair, his head resting upon one hand. It appeared to Susan that he was deep in thought. Before she could say anything though, he rose and left the room.

Curious, Susan followed him into the white hallway and down the stairs into the lobby. She paused in the doorway and listened to him give the man at the desk directions to have all their letters and telegrams sent up to their room immediately.

She thought she knew what had disturbed her parents so greatly, but she didn't want to think about it. It was too sensitive of a subject to discuss with them at any rate.

Tuning out her father's voice and trying to focus on the music from upstairs, she wandered into the currently vacant parlor. It was quite a different picture now than at yesterday's tea party.

Without all the people, the room looked very large despite being little more than 40 square meters in size.

The furniture looked larger too. The settees, the chaises, the chairs and the ottomans all made her feel quite small as she moved to the center of the room.

She set her Latin book on one of the coffee tables and looked around her. Of all the other rooms she had seen in the hotel, this was the most colorful. In fact, it didn't seem to belong to the hotel, it was that different.

The walls were neither white, nor were they papered in a white floral print. The lower half was dark wood paneling, the same as the floor throughout the hotel, and the top half was painted a deep green. There was a large picture window on the back wall, and a red and green patterned rug on the floor. It appeared oriental, by the design.

There was a coat rack by the door behind her, as well as a large buffet. There were a few end tables with lamps about the room, and on the walls were numerous paintings, all with thalassic themes.

Susan still hadn't been to the beach. The last two days had been spent unpacking and attempting to sleep off the effects of the journey, and today it was raining. The beach was out of the question.

Putting aside her boredom, she decided to explore the room.

She had set her eyes on a painting of an old man-of-war, when a hutch along one wall caught her attention. It was filled with delicate porcelain sculptures and other pieces of art.

There was a bust of Napoleon Bonaparte, and another of Joseph Vernet. A beautifully painted figurine of Marie Antoinette made her smile, and she twirled around, imagining herself in the full pink skirts the figurine wore.

She twirled around the coffee tables and ottomans, moving in time with the music that sounded louder now that there was no crying baby or arguing parents, even downstairs.

The man had increased the volume on the gramophone-thing yesterday evening and had not turned it down since, much to her parents' annoyance. Susan thought of telling them it was probably because of their arguing that he had done so, but it probably wouldn't accomplish anything.

She continued her twirling over the thick oriental rug, behind the settee, past the window…and bumped into a chair. She fell back and just barely missed hitting her head on the back of the settee.

She stood up and brushed herself off, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed her fall. There was no one within sight.

Straightening her skirts, she set her eyes on the last pieces of furniture in the room: a small bookshelf that stood against the back wall between the window and the chair she had just collided with, and a spinet piano in the corner opposite.

Looking between the two, her eyes landed back on the Latin textbook sitting on the coffee table in the center of the room.

She was reminded of the similarity between the Latin and the words in the music, and paused in her considerations about the furniture to listen again.

It was definitely close to Latin, but definitely was not. She decided to think of what it wasn't to see if that helped.

It wasn't Danish. She'd heard enough of it during their five days in Denmark to recognize it when she heard it. And it certainly wasn't German. That was an unfavorable language on the ears, and three weeks of her life she wanted back.

They had reached Switzerland just in time for the baby to be born, and the language spoken by the Swiss nurses was not the language she was hearing in the music.

A week later they had reached Montpellier, and now another week later they were in Maguelone, and Susan was certain that if the language being spoken in the music were French, she would know it.

So what was it?

She stood there, distrait, gazing at her Latin book when a thought suddenly occurred to her. Maybe the hotel had language books.

She turned to the bookcase and began scanning the titles.

There were several books with French titles that she could not read, and a few in English. One was a book about France, which would be of no help. There were several Bibles in numerous languages. Perhaps those could be useful.

She opened the dusty glass doors of the bookcase and started pulling out the Bibles. French, English, German, Latin…and two others she did not recognize at first glance.

She opened the first one. It was all written in strange symbols, some of which looked like letters but others that did not. She hoped that was not the language the music was in. She set it aside and moved on to the next one.

Opening the second one, she stared at the text intently. This was similar to Latin in appearance. Maybe this was the right language.

She relaxed comfortably in the chair she had been sitting so stiffly in during yesterday's afternoon tea and laid the large Bible across her lap. She opened to a page in the middle, thick with the foreign words and scanned them as she listened to the music.

She found the first familiar word quickly: _o_. Soon after came _il_ and _ti_. There were lots of long words though that she couldn't recognize, and she leaned over the big book, squinting in concentration at the tiny words.

There were two more, _mai _and _mia_, which were so alike it took her several minutes to hear the difference.

She heard the word _amore_ a couple of times. Far fewer times than she saw it on the page in the Bible. And then she picked up the words _promesso _and _patria_.

This must be it. Whatever this language was, it was the language the music was in.

She smiled widely with pride in the way she solved the mystery and began looking for more words as she listened. They came more quickly as she scanned the pages and she was beginning to finally recognize a pattern to the music.

The current song was so beautiful too. At this moment, it was a solo woman's voice singing a lovely, sustained melody with orchestral accompaniment.

Susan looked over at the piano.

She was not terribly good in music, but it was one of her better subjects. And this song was so pretty that she wanted to remember it forever.

She closed the heavy book and slid out of the chair, eyes on the piano with one purpose in mind.

Reaching it, she sat down and adjusted the position of the bench so she her feet could touch the pedals, listening intently all the while.

She hit a few keys and was surprised at how loud the piano was, she had been that focused on the soft music upstairs.

After a few moments of dissonance between her playing and what she heard through the ceiling, she found a correct note. She kept her finger on it as she listened to the melody, trying to hear the intervals correctly.

She cautiously hit a few keys where she thought the notes should be and was delighted to have many of them correct. She kept at it, listening and testing keys until she had the melody secure in her mind and her hands.

Then she listened for the bass line. This was harder because it was orchestral accompaniment and not a harpsichord, whose bright tones would cut through the vocals.

She rapidly gave up on that part and settled herself happily into repeating the melody over and over, even as the song ended and the music continued onto something else.

So absorbed was she, that she didn't notice when the music above her stopped playing, and instead the sound of footsteps was breaking the silence. First in the hall above, and then descending the stairs.

But she didn't hear them

Susan tried to remember the words that went along with the melody she was playing but could only recall a few of them correctly without seeing them.

She walked back to where she'd left the Bible next to the chair and then brought it to the piano, setting it open on top. It was too heavy to stay on the music stand.

She looked at the words for a moment and realized she could only remember a select few. Dejected, she sat at the piano and thought desperately, trying to hear the song again.

Only the first few words came back to her, but she thought that if she sang them it might help.

She set to playing the melody again and murmured out a few of the words as best she could, not knowing the language, but the rest didn't come back to her.

She finished the song and started again, doing the same thing—singing the first few words and continuing.

But it didn't help.

She was so frustrated! She sang the first few words and stopped. Nothing was coming back. She did it again. And again.

"_O patria mia…_" she sang, but the rest of the words were gone. She sat back from the keyboard and folded her arms, almost in tears. It had been so beautiful…

"_Mai più ti revedrò_." Susan started at the sound of the other voice and whirled around. Standing halfway in the doorway was a man. She hadn't seen him in the hotel before.

He was wearing a nightshirt, a rumpled blue dressing gown, and slippers. He had dark, almost black hair, and it appeared to have not been combed in days.

For several moments Susan just stared at the man as her heartbeat calmed down from the surprise, and he stared back.

His stare was…odd. She could see there was a certain curiosity in his manner, probably about her playing piano and singing the strange words. But there was also…emptiness in his eyes, like she had never seen in another living soul.

It suddenly occurred to her that this was the man who had looked out at her yesterday morning when she had been afraid of the music. He had actually left his room!

She looked at him more intently now. Yes…

The same thin limbs and features of the silhouette, the same hesitancy in the way he just leaned through the doorway but did not step through it. It was definitely him.

Now the question was what to do with him. They had been simply staring, unmoving for almost a minute, and Susan's shock was turning to uneasiness. Just who was this man and why did he never leave his room? Why had he done so now?

Her thought process was ended as he shattered the silence by speaking.

"Hello." Susan blinked.

"Hello," she answered back.

"I apologize. It was not my intention to startle you."

"That's alright." She stood up and faced him, suddenly conscious of those manners her mother was always drilling into her.

"Do not let me disturb you. Do go on," he offered as she moved.

"Well, I…I can't remember anymore," she answered glumly, looking at the floor. There was a brief moment of silence as Susan eyed her shoes, but she looked up as she heard the man take another step into the room.

"Would you like me to transcribe the music for you?" Susan could not believe what she was hearing. And she wasn't quite sure she understood either.

"You mean you can write the notes down for me to play? And the words?" she asked hopefully.

"Yes, if you like," he replied nonchalantly.

"Oh thank you!" she said delightedly, virtually bouncing in her joy.

"You are most welcome," he answered plainly. That said, he turned to leave, and an important fact suddenly occurred to Susan.

"Oh, wait!" she cried, prompting the man to halt and look at her again, almost surprised that she had spoken without prompting, "What language is that music in?"

"Italian," he replied. And then, with a nod of his head, he was gone.

* * *

_Author's notes: So! Have you figured it out yet? Have you? One person already has…_

_Oh, and this chapter was written at five in the morning after being up all night, so forgive any random errors._


	4. Anticipation and Explanation

Day 4 – Anticipation and Explanation

Susan had barely been able to sleep that night. Not only for her excitement over the prospect of being able to play that song, but because now she was hearing it over and over.

The man had been replaying it almost from the moment he left her in the parlor, and had been stopping it in random places for lengthy intervals, and then replaying phrases repeatedly.

She had heard it in her dreams, and every time she closed her eyes she saw the piano in front of her, and imagined her hands flying over the keyboard.

It was many hours later when she answered her mother's call to lunch, as she had slept through breakfast, albeit restlessly. She imagined her eyes had the same dark circles her mother's did after so many sleepless nights with the baby crying.

She had risen and dressed, and now hurried out of her room to meet her parents downstairs. But then rushing out of the suite, she promptly bumped into someone's backside.

The person's response was a loud "oomph!" And stepping back, she looked up into the surprised face of one of the hotel staff.

The man looked at her in surprise for a moment, and then began to laugh.

"Do not look so chagrinned, _petit fille_," he said with an amused smile, "I have done the same thing many times."

Susan had a hard time believing that, judging by the man's height. He could probably see above everyone's head in all of France. She was almost afraid of him, but his charming smile coupled with the ridiculous white and green hotel uniform gave him an almost comic appearance.

"I—I'm very sorry," she said meekly, "I should have been watching."

"No harm done," he said in his heavy French accent, turning back to the door across from Susan's suite. The door that the music was still coming from, in its broken pattern as the man stopped and replayed it over and over.

Her inquisitive nature overcoming her slight embarrassment, Susan walked around the robust man and looked to see what had his interest.

He had two carts in front of him, both laden with trays and plates and teapots and silverware. He appeared to be trying to turn one around in the narrow hall, but wasn't having much luck because of the position of the other one.

Susan watched him struggle a moment before he turned and looked at her again.

"You would think the owners would have purchased smaller carts for such narrow hallways," he smiled resignedly at her, and leaned against one of the carts. "What is your name, _petit fille_?"

"Susan," she answered after a moment.

"Ah, _comme le beau lys_! Well, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mademoiselle Susan. My name is Michel," he said, offering her his hand.

She blinked a couple of times before shaking his hand. _Michel_? Isn't that a girl's name? She decided not to comment on the subject as she placed her tiny hand into his large one, wincing at his firm grip.

"And how are you enjoying your stay in Maguelone, _petit lys_?"

"Um, very well thank you."

"Ha-ha, do not feel bad. This is not the most entertaining of places. But surely, you find the beach diverting?" Susan took her hand back and laced her fingers behind her. She wasn't entirely sure about this man. Everything about his appearance reminded her of her father. But for all his bulk and stern features, his jovial manner was beginning to put her at ease.

"I haven't been to the beach," she replied after a few moments' hesitation.

"Oh, no? Well, not everyone likes the beach. Take this fellow," he said, gesturing with his head toward the door that was now blocked by the food carts, "he has barely set a foot out of this room for two months already. And it's a kind Providence that gets him to eat at all. See here," he said turning to the cart he had been trying to get out of the hallway, "he did not even touch his breakfast this morning."

Susan took a step closer to view the cart and the plate the man had lifted the cover from. It held two cold slices of ham, and a fried egg that smelled as if it had been there longer than the few hours since breakfast. There were also two tartines on a plate, but they appeared a bit stale.

This man named Michel must have seen her eyeing them though, because his next statement took her slightly by surprise.

"You may eat them if you want. They will be given to the birds if you do not." Susan eyed the rather dry-looking breakfast pastry with some interest, but her attention was not focused because of the pungent meat and eggs.

She shook her head no, remembering the other day when her mother had appeared behind her as she was about to take a pastry.

"Well, then would you care to help me take all this to the beach? The seagulls will be quite pleased." Again, she shook her head. She wanted to go to the beach, but not with this big intimidating man.

"As you like," was his response, and he returned to his task of trying to maneuver the carts in the narrow hallway.

Susan turned and walked down the hall, nervous from the encounter. She had not met a person so friendly throughout the entire holiday. Certainly, there had been nice people, but none had ever paid her any attention. Perhaps helping him would not have been a bad idea…

She stopped short in her thoughts, and her movements as she reached the stairs because she saw the young French boy Adrien coming up. When he saw her he smirked at her, and halted himself, bracing his hands on the railings. His intention was clear enough. He was challenging her to pass.

Susan was a bit scared of this…boy. He was obviously much older than her, despite his behavior. If she had to guess, from his appearance he seemed about fourteen or fifteen years of age. She wondered that at his age, he did not behave with more propriety.

She stood, staring at him blankly, hoping if she appeared indifferent he would just step aside, but instead he took to taunting her.

"_Où pensez-vous que vous allez, __**petit**__ fille?"_ he asked with a rather devilish grin. Susan tried to process his rapid French, and could not get enough of it to answer. So she simply stood her ground and set her jaw, not about to let this churl get the better of her.

The boy advanced a few steps and spoke in English this time, "What's wrong _little_ girl? Not educated enough to speak French?" Susan remained stoic, and he took another step toward her. "I asked you where you are going. To the parlor? I ate all the croissants, so don't bother about that. And I _know_ you don't like the tea. Why not come with me?" his eyes gleamed with mischief, "We could have some fun trying to get that old hermit to come out of his room?" he suggested, and Susan, finally overcome with unease, backed up several steps.

"No thank you," she replied with all the seriousness and stiff manners her parents displayed at social gatherings. And to her consternation, the boy laughed.

"Aw come on, don't you want to see him? He hasn't budged from that room in the three weeks I've been here. I want to know what he's up to," he took a few more steps forward, and Susan hesitated. She wouldn't dream of doing anything so dreadful, but she _was_ extremely curious about the man. "So what do you say?" he said with finality, eyes flashing as he approached her.

An alarm suddenly went off in her head as he quickened his pace toward her, but her unfamiliarity with the hotel delayed her reaction, and before she knew what was happening, Adrien had lunged forward and shoved her hard.

It was an unfortunate piece of luck that had the waiter Michel rounding the corner at that moment with the old breakfast cart, and she fell backwards into that causing it to overturn and both Michel and her to lose their footing.

Michel stumbled against the wall with a grunt, and Susan slipped toward the stairs, catching herself on the corner of the wall. She let out a yelp of pain, which couldn't be heard for Adrien's cackling.

Michel recovered first, righting himself and then Susan, favoring her with a worried glance.

"Are you hurt, _petit lys_?" he asked with genuine concern. Susan bit her lip and shook her head, though her knee was a bit sore, and her side where she had hit the corner. Michel rubbed his shoulder and started down the stairs after Adrien, who was making his less than discreet exit, just as the hotel manager appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

Michel yelled something in French, to which the manager responded with a snarl and chased after the disappearing boy. The robust waiter then turned back to Susan, continuing to rub his shoulder. He was about to speak but then looked up to something behind Susan.

"Oh sir, I am so sorry if you were disturbed," he said with an apprehensive tone. Susan turned and looked up to see the imposing figure of the man in the blue dressing gown. He was busy glaring at the waiter, and then his eyes quickly darted over the scene, finally resting on her for a moment before looking back the Michel. His gaze seemed to soften slightly as he looked at her, but then hardened again as they rose to the apologetic waiter.

Susan finally had her chance to get a good look at the man. He was taller than her father and exceptionally thin, and his face seemed rather emaciated. It was true then, that he did not eat much of what the hotel offered. He still had that unkempt look of the previous day, but now his eyes flashed with fire rather than that haunting languor.

He crossed his arms in front of him, rapidly tapping the thin fingers of his right hand against his left arm. He said something in French and Susan looked back to see Michel shrink at what was obviously a scolding. It was shocking to see that large confident man so suddenly change in the presence of this mysterious fellow.

They continued conversing in French, the waiter seeming more and more like a child with every word the thin man spoke, and Susan watched the scene, stunned at what was unfolding. Michel moved past her and righted the cart and begin picking up the scattered silverware and plates, and turning his nose and the wasted food upon the floor.

Susan sniffed herself, and then realized the smell was a bit closer than it should be. She looked down to find that the man's uneaten egg had ended up on her dress. What would her mother say?

"Susan!" Speak of the devil. She bit her lip again and turned around slowly to see both her parents ascending the stairs, "what on earth?! What have you been doing?" Michel began to answer her in French but stopped at her confused look upon both her parents' faces, and the other man took up the explanation.

"I gather that it was the fault of that rather repugnant grandson of Lady Poitiers," he said with some coldness, "Do not blame the girl." Susan looked back at the man in some surprise, for she had never had anyone defend her before. His expression had not changed, and he held that same apathetic expression as when she had first seen him.

Susan's mother did not respond to this but to blink, so her father stepped past his wife and answered for her.

"All the same, we are sorry if she has caused you any disturbance," he said with an air of disinterest as he took a tight hold of Susan's hand, the implications of which she understood clearly. Her father was not pleased.

"Oh!" her mother suddenly exclaimed, and Susan followed her gaze to a few red spots staining her stocking at the knee where she had fallen, "Oh Susan," she sighed, "come along." And taking her other hand, she pulled her past the men in the tiny corridor and before Susan knew it, she was being undressed and put into the bathtub.

Her mother continued scolding her as she ran the water, and Susan tried to ignore her as she watched the water running from the brass pipe. Her home did not have indoor plumbing as of yet, and in the few places she had seen it on their holiday, it had continued to fascinate her.

"Susan, are you listening to me?" she looked back to her mother, "You must learn to behave. Honestly, your brother was never this much trouble…" she shook her head as she began scrubbing her all over. Susan blinked as the slimy white soap got in her eyes.

There was a knock at the door, followed by her father's voice, "Pearl?" Her mother sighed.

"Wash your hair Susan," she said as she turned to leave. Her parents' voices carried down the hall and she heard the closing of the door to their suite. She absently looked around the dark room.

Only one wall was white in this one, and the rest were old wood paneling. The floor was wood like the rest of the hotel. There was a small window like those at the top and bottom of the stairwell, and a thin shaft of light was fighting through the shutters and illuminating the dark floor.

Susan lightly splashed water over her arms and she listened as parents' arguing voices pierced the silence. She rubbed water in her eyes, though the soap was no longer the cause of their stinging.

The volume of the opera music increased again.

* * *

_Author's notes: First, let me apologize for the sinfully slow update. Writer's block hit me extremely hard and the only way to get over it was to forget the story altogether for a while. I can't promise quick updates, but they will definitely not be months apart._

_Also, I can't recall if I gave the old French woman a surname in a previous chapter, so if I did let me know and I'll edit the name in this one. Thanks for reading!_


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